


Sad Time (in the alley by the railway) Station

by raedbard



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-16
Updated: 2008-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 13:00:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedbard/pseuds/raedbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men are waiting in the rain for a train only one of them can catch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sad Time (in the alley by the railway) Station

**Author's Note:**

> for melliyna in the 'first kisses' meme.

Same age, same terrible haircuts, they stand at a station platform in Southern England, waiting for the train that only one of them can catch. Rupert, being British, is comfortably holding an umbrella in his left hand; Toby, being a New Yorker, is glaring angrily at the sky, about a half a second from shaking his fist at it.

"That doesn't usually help," Rupert says, following the track of Toby's gaze up into the incessant grey-and-bleak of a London skyline in November. He - Rupert, _Giles_ \- is watching Toby carefully, almost like he's taking notes, meekness wrapped up in a leather-jacket-electric-guitar disguise. Toby stares back, angry, and angrier because he doesn't understand why.

"You're gonna say something about magic that's gonna make me want to spit now, aren't you?"

"No," he says, quietly, "No, I wasn't."

Toby ducks away from the texture of his voice, flinching. He scuffs the toe of his shoe across the platform; gets back the faint whiff of dead cigarettes and the manic fluttering of a nearby pigeon for his trouble.

"Why won't it stop raining? Goddamn it!"

"This is England, Toby," he says, so very quiet. "This is what we do."

There is a dark turning, under the bridge that separates the two platforms. Dark with sorrow and dank with piss, under the shadow of old brick that reminds Toby of home and reminds Rupert of being unhappy (and not much to pick between them), he touches Toby's arm. Through the thick wool coat Toby can't feel, only imagine he can. His fingers - Giles' fingers - stroking up and down his arm like a guitar lick. Toby - American to his core, and offended by the rain and the cowardice and maddened by the fear; the stupid secrecy - takes hold of that hand in his, squeezes it, skin to skin. Giles gasps, and Toby grasps: mouth sour with smoke and sorrow at goodbye. The head of the umbrella pokes Toby's thigh; they both look down in the same moment. Toby lets out a dark, liquid chuckle; Giles smiles, and runs his fingers over Toby's mouth.

"I'm afraid I'm not very good at goodbyes," he says.

"Me either."

"Will you write?"

Toby looks up at him, sees the plea that not even an Englishman would ever admit to.

"Sure. I'll write. Send you postcards."

Giles - _Rupert_ \- tilts his head back, open, rising up to meet Toby as he comes forward, somewhere in the middle. A sweeter kiss this time, though no less like goodbye. Rupert does not taste of tea, as Toby had always expected, but of milk, and the faint acrid tang of magic, lingering at the back of his throat like perfume.

"Yes," Toby says, his head very close to Giles', "I'll write."

"I'll look forward to that," he says, whispering, into Toby's ear, making him shiver, forgetful of the rain.


End file.
